1967
by Evilyn Grendel
Summary: Aziraphale thought very hard to come up with any other reason why Crowley might rob a church. He didn't want to think about the very obvious reason staring him directly in the face. Cowritten by Arthur Albion.
1. Chapter 1

_Cowritten by Arthur Albion_

* * *

1967

It had been a perfectly ordinary and lovely day up until that point.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Aziraphale asked, hoping against hope he misheard the tailor before him.

Julian brushed invisible wrinkles out of the light coloured Victorian garb, assessing it with an eager eye. It wasn't often something this old and well kept passed through the shop, and Fell had never been willing to leave the coat before. "I said, it shouldn't take too long to fix up. Restore a bit of the wear at the edges to give it a nice finish. It'll look very modern. I'll give you a ring when it's done?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I meant before that. You mentioned a heist?"

"Oh yeah, right, the goth with the sunglasses. He wanted a locksman, some muscle, and an acrobat. Can't be anything else but some kind of theft. Comes in here, earlier today, looking for a new jacket. I showed him that one there, over in the corner. Beautiful, isn't it? So many vibrant colours it practically glows in the dark! Very stylish, and it has such lovely paisley. And you know what he says? Has the nerve to ask me? Asks me, 'you have it in black?' Goths. Didn't have black hair at least, though it had to be out of the bottle that colour. Such a red, I've never seen a shade like it on a human's head. Had to be a goth though. Didn't seem the type to be in mourning, you know."

Aziraphale felt the ground spin under his feet and struggled to keep a polite expression on his face as he listened in a daze as the tailor prattled on. What on earth was Crowley up to?

"Right. Any idea if I should be concerned? It would be rather bothersome if I had to fix any damages if that is indeed the case."

"No, I don't know the target, Red wouldn't say, but I don't think you should be worried. Not many people seem to buy anything from your shop let alone take the time to steal from you. Should be a quiet night tonight for you and the ol' bookshop."

"Ah, yes, quite right. Er. That is a relief, thank you."

"Right. So, was thinking, maybe you should try something from this century? Just whilst I have your coat in for work? Might find some new look even you fancy."

"Thank you, no, I'm afraid I'm quite busy today. Perhaps next time I stop in."

Aziraphale bade the disgruntled tailor goodbye and quickly stepped out into the street, struggling to comprehend the meaning of the demon's activity. It wasn't unusual for the angel to unintentionally catch wind of some scheme Crowley was stirring up, but that had been more common in the old days before their Arrangement. Since then, they had been more frequently checking in with each other's activities and whereabouts. Especially when the other might be directly involved. At least, they had been up until one hundred and five years ago when they had a fallout over the question of Holy Water. Things had been a little awkward since then. More than a little, if he was honest.

There was no reason for Aziraphale to doubt Crowley. If anything, he trusted Crowley more than any of his fellow angels. However, he couldn't stop the nagging feeling that the demon was up to something. Something he didn't seem to want Aziraphale to know about. If that was true, then it was silly of him to operate in Soho. Aziraphale may be an angel, but he liked to keep his ear open to the human underworld. It proved very useful for situations exactly like this.

The angel knew it was probably wise to keep himself out of it, but he had unintentionally adopted some of the demon's tendencies. Aziraphale was curious. What could possibly be so important about a robbery that would convince Crowley to work with humans? Of course, it was impossible for Crowley to pull off _all _of his stunts alone, but in recent centuries he had rarely worked alongside humans to execute his various cunning evil deeds. Adding additional beings to his plots created liabilities and "loose ends" as Crowley always put it. Too many variables for just one demon to control, meaning too many possibilities for the operation to go wrong. Not to mention a human or two might attempt to double-cross him with humanity's ever-unpredictable nature. Human error was frequently a wrench in the cogs of evil, apparently.

Unable to shake off his gut instinct that things were afoot, Aziraphale hurried home to his bookshop and began making some telephone calls. For all of Crowley's cleverness, it didn't take too long for the angel to catch his trail and begin making links. Aziraphale was positive he only managed this because he knew which idiosyncrasies to look for given how long he had known Crowley. Crowley was as unique in the human underworld as he was in the capital lettered Underworld. Even with a few miraculous promptings the details of the heist were extremely difficult to find, but found they eventually were.

The sun was beginning to set before Aziraphale finally struck on a bit of news that truly disturbed him. He could not find the object of interest for this theft, but apparently the targetted establishment would be a church. Aziraphale thought very hard to come up with any other reason why Crowley might rob a church. He didn't want to think about the very obvious reason staring him directly in the face. Hands trembling, he returned the telephone to its cradle.

The angel began to pace the shop, hands wringing together with nervous energy as he thought. On the one hand, he stood by what he had said over one hundred years ago. Holy Water was far too dangerous, especially for a demon. On the other, it was far more dangerous for Crowley to attempt stealing Holy Water. The thought of Heaven finding out he was handing over a Holy weapon to a demon was, actually nowhere near as worrisome. It barely crossed his mind. The true risk was in Heaven, and by extension Hell, discovering the Arrangement. Discovering all of their clandestine meetings over pleasant dinners and glasses of wine. Discovering how they traded work, Crowley performing blessings and Aziraphale stirring up mischief. Discovering their fraternizing as Aziraphale himself had so eloquently phrased it. If they were discovered, the punishments awaiting himself in Heaven could never compare to the horrors that would await Crowley in Hell. No, it was all in all far too great a risk. Aziraphale could not bear the thought that his involvement would be their downfall.

However, the humans would likely underestimate the full gravity of this theft. In addition to all the messy risks of human involvement Crowley liked to complain about, there was another risk that made Aziraphale stop in his tracks and close his eyes. The humans would not know to dry and clean whatever container this stolen water would be within. They would not know Crowley absolutely could not touch a single drop. They would not know how or why he would cease to be.

It was likely Crowley had considered all these risks and had already planned precautions against such probable catastrophes. Crowley wasn't an idiot. Aziraphale knew the demon would not follow through on such a high risk unless he was well prepared. The angel didn't doubt him in that regard, but it brought him no comfort. Accidents happened. If Crowley lowered his guard for even one second, if even one drop touched him, the demon would be gone. Aziraphale would never see him again. The very idea Crowley would die made something well up inside him until he thought he might suffocate. It was a good thing he didn't need to breathe, strictly speaking.

Death was not something Aziraphale had to dwell on often, despite the death he was constantly surrounded by living on earth. He was an angel. His physical body could be discorporated, but his essence could not truly cease to exist save by celestial means. Despite his own occult nature, Crowley was a different case. There was no doubt in Aziraphale's mind that Hell would destroy him. Destroy him for the Arrangement. Destroy him for possessing Holy Water. Any reason they liked really. Or even without reason. Hell was ruthless.

Aziraphale dithered for a few hours pacing around the shop as the sun gave way to Soho lights as night took over. Fear replaced anxiety as he realised night had fallen. According to Julian, Crowley was to be meeting with the humans at some point this evening. His time was up. In an instant, Aziraphale knew that he could not let Crowley take this risk.

The angel hurried into his kitchenette, grabbed the nearest thermos out of the cupboard, and carefully manoeuvred the mouth of the thermos under the tap before twisting it on. He watched tensely for any water splashing out of the cup as it filled. His overcaution and suddenly steady hands prevented any sloshing. The tap was quickly shut off before it was completely filled. Screwing the cap on securely, he examined the exterior for any moisture. Deeming it properly dry, he cupped the thermos in his hands as he closed his eyes to bless the water within.

Releasing a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, he cracked his eyes open to look down at the innocent thermos. A bizarre sense of calm had settled over him as he slowly began to accept what had to be done.

Aziraphale hesitated for only a moment to stretch out his senses and determine where Crowley was before he departed the shop.


	2. Chapter 2

_Cowritten by Arthur Albion_

* * *

Crowley had woken up early in the afternoon and had to unstick himself from the wall where he had apparently decided to sleep when he went to bed a few days before. His back cracked when he was standing on the floor once more. It was best to sleep in the bed, but sometimes that simply was not an option for the paranoid serpent. Clicking his fingers, he glanced down as his outfit changed into something more appropriate for going out. Crowley made a face. It was time to update his wardrobe. And arrange a meeting for some very human assistance.

He was less than enthusiastic about the neon and psychedelic colours the humans favoured, and the shopkeep had seemed put out by his request for everything to be black. In the end, though, he left the shop in his usual black. More importantly, however, he also had a meeting for that evening with some humans to arrange a very particular theft.

Crowley didn't like dealing with extra liabilities, but there was no way around it this time. He had tried. He had examined the situation from every angle until he had been forced to concede he would need help. Human help, since angelic help had long been out of the question. That which was to be stolen could not be nicked by a demon, or he would have done it himself already. Real bugger of a problem since the whole point was to use the weapon on a demon if the situation arose. Which Crowley expected it eventually would do.

It had been an eventful evening with too many surprises after his careful planning. Sitting in his flat, he had been able to call off the robbery. What he had been planning to steal had instead been given to him by an angel. His angel. His angel had handed him a thermos of Holy Water. A tartan thermos at that. Crowley was positive it was the same tartan pattern as Aziraphale's bowtie. Admittedly, it looked better around Aziraphale's beautiful neck, but tartan was never stylish.

The tartan thermos sat in front of him on his otherwise empty office desk save the ansaphone. The demon was sat in his throne absently staring at the seemingly innocent thermos. As if it didn't contain ultimate destruction within itself. Cheeky little thermos. Just like Aziraphale, how fitting.

Crowley stayed like that for a few hours until sometime after midnight he came out of his thoughts. The thermos made him very uncomfortable. Contrary to what Aziraphale had jumped to assume a century ago, the reality of death had never crossed Crowley's mind. Not really. He had seen plenty of death over the many centuries, but it wasn't something an immortal creature worried about. Usually.

Glancing around the room, his eyes landed on the cartoon of the Mona Lisa. He had bought it from Leonardo centuries ago in Florence. It was better than the finished painting, in his opinion, and Leonardo had agreed. Best fifteen florins he had spent. Crowley clicked his fingers as he stood then crossed the room. The frame was now discreetly hinged on one side that swung forward to reveal a safe set into the wall behind it.

Crowley set the date as the lock combination before he glared at the thermos again, still sitting innocently on his desk. He had unthinkingly accepted the tumbler from Aziraphale with bare hands, but the thought of touching it again unnerved him now. Another click of his fingers summoned a pair of very long, rubber gloves. The demon slipped them on up to his shoulders before he, extremely carefully and excessively slowly, moved the Holy Water into the chamber of the safe.

It was good Crowley did not require air as he had forgotten to breathe. Removing the gloves, he considered them for a moment before tossing them inside as well to sit next to the thermos. He would need them next time he had to open this door after all. Whenever that day came. Looking over the sparse contents of the safe, he clicked his fingers again and added a full-length rubber apron as well as some tongs. Closing the thick door, he spun the dial then swung the sketch back into place to sit flush with the wall as if nothing was there.

A shiver slid involuntarily down his spine before Crowley dropped into his ornate chair. His thoughts immediately drifted back to Aziraphale and their encounter earlier that evening. It was good they had been on speaking terms again after nearly eighty years of silence. Not that they had been in contact much since 1941. Not like the centuries before. Crowley had missed sitting in the bookshop or across a table with the angel as they talked and laughed and debated over drinks and meals. The occasional moments when he hadn't been asleep had been plagued with worry for Aziraphale as well as annoyance with the angel after their fight. Most of all though, Crowley had simply missed Aziraphale. Missed his company and conversation and the comfort that was just _him_. Not that he could admit this to anyone. Certainly not to Aziraphale.

Thoughts replayed those brief words in the car for what was probably at least the hundredth time that night. His momentary surprise and delight to see the angel had been banished by the mention of their previous disagreement over Holy Water. It wasn't a moment Crowley liked to think about, the moment that had driven a wedge between them greater than even their opposing sides had ever managed. Their hereditary differences. His annoyance had been obvious the instant it was mentioned. Debating with the angel was fun, but arguing was a different matter entirely. Crowley did not want or need a lecture about the dangers of Holy Water. He, like any demon, knew exactly how dangerous that stuff was. Probably more so than any angel.

Crowley should have known better. Aziraphale had been surprising him since they met on the wall of Eden and that hadn't changed in nearly six millennia. Annoyance had been replaced with disbelief and a slight hope as he accepted the thermos. Aziraphale finally got it. Finally understood just how dangerous things were becoming. How dangerous things had always been since they began working under the Arrangement nine centuries ago. How he, Crowley, wanted to protect himself from Hell so they could keep meeting for drinks and dinner.

No.

Aziraphale still seemed to be under the impression that Crowley intended to use the Holy Water for his own ultimate self-destruction. How the angel could be so clever and so dense in the same moment was baffling.

It was infuriating and almost insulting how little the angel seemed to trust Crowley in this.

Yet, Crowley still appreciated the gesture. Anger ebbed away as he tried to understand Aziraphale's side of things. Aziraphale, worried over the death of a demon, worried about getting into trouble with Heaven, worried about being left alone on this miserably amazing planet they had come to call home, had still given Crowley this weapon. Freely given. Unconditionally given.

Crowley knew how hard this must have been for Aziraphale. To defy Heaven. It wasn't insulting, it was endearing.

They had been on speaking terms again, for a couple of decades now, but the easiness they used to enjoy was still missing. It was almost like being catapulted back over a millennia ago, back before the Arrangement, back when they had always been very cordial yet also very cautious with each other. Crowley hated it. Centuries of progress destroyed with one request. His fault. Evil seeds of self-destruction and all that.

Aziraphale, the Enemy, was the only face he saw regularly over the millennia since Time was invented. They were something more like friends. At least, Crowley preferred to think they were. He knew better than to delude himself entirely; trusting a demon was liable to get you killed.

Crowley could see how upset handing over Holy Water had made the angel, and he had wanted to reassure Aziraphale the weapon was not for his own use. He could and would make Aziraphale understand. The thought of leaving his angel forever had never even been on the table. Not to mention, Crowley wanted to spend time with Aziraphale. He had suggested they go somewhere, probably back to the bookshop.

Aziraphale shot him down.

Twice.

Well, not truly.

Crowley understood his angel. He understood their conversation had been Aziraphale's reply. The angel's own returned confession after his open declaration in 1941. He had been reckless then. Waltzing right into a church. Or hopping rather. Too excited to see Aziraphale and too worried about the angel's safety to even care about the damage he was causing himself. Not just a wound of his corporation, Holy wounds went deeper to his core. Crowley had forgotten himself and drastically overstepped the boundaries. Aziraphale's boundaries. He had forgotten to play his role. The dashing hero rather than the painfully honest, secretly pining, best friend. Not so secretly anymore.

Aziraphale hadn't told him 'no', but the 'not yet' had still stung.

Crowley had been waiting for millennia, but he would wait however long it took. Waiting for Aziraphale would be worth it. Still, this did not stop his anger with himself. It was easier to be angry with himself than to be disappointed. He had been so careful, for so many years. Worried constantly about the angel's safety, and his own safety. Worried he would scare off the only being that made living fun. He knew the angel was powerful and could smite him at any moment, but he liked to think they were beyond all that nasty business.

They might be past the smiting, but they were a long way off from unconditional companionship and trust. Trust that didn't require coded communication and more layers than a bloody onion with thin lies and even thinner truths laced throughout. If that could really be called trust.

Growling at nothing and everything, Crowley left his office around four that morning. He didn't want to think anymore. He was tired and ready to sleep for the rest of the week.

He did exactly that, though the rest of the week ended up being most of the next month. When he did wake up again, his mind almost immediately returned to Aziraphale with the same longing.

He had it bad. Had for well over two millennia, at least. Probably longer.

Not that he realised it, but Crowley then spent another month or so just curled up in bed, thinking. Thinking about Aziraphale and that conversation in the Bentley. He looked at it again and again from every angle he could, but the results were always the same. Madness, some might call it. Romantic sops would call it love. Crowley just called it Thursday. But a very long Thursday. He could never get the hang of Thursdays.

Coming back to himself after a while, he decided he was being stupid. They were on speaking terms. Aziraphale hadn't outright rejected him. Just asked him to wait. He could wait. He was used to waiting, but that didn't mean they couldn't have lunch. What time was it? Whatever, it was lunchtime somewhere.

Crowley pulled himself out of bed and shuffled across the flat to his office. Picking up the phone, he rang the bookshop.

_The number you have dialled is not in service. Please hang up and try your call again._

Crowley frowned at the phone as he returned it to the cradle. Aziraphale ran a business, sort of, and he wasn't the type to not have a proper telephone. Yellow eyes flicked to the ansaphone which was not blinking with any missed messages. Worry flooded his entire being. With a click of his fingers, he changed clothes as he was already crossing the flat to leave.

If Heaven had found out about the Holy Water and punished Aziraphale he, well, he didn't know what he would do. But he would take down a few Archangels with him.

The Bentley raced down Oxford Street. It knew the way and was careful not to hit anything or anyone.

Crowley parked across the street rather than in his usual parking spot. Turning off the car, he glared across the street. Luckily, it was daytime. He had given no thought to if the shop would be open or not. It never crossed his mind. The shop was always open to him, day or night.

The shop looked all right, from the outside. Trying to calm down, Crowley focused as he pushed his senses out. He deflated in relief when he felt Aziraphale inside the bookshop. The only angelic presence in the shop. The only supernatural entity present in the shop.

Flopping back into the seat, Crowley stayed in the car and just watched the shop for a while. Must not be open, or no one wanted to attempt to buy a book. Not even humans seemed to be inside, and no one was entering either. This wasn't too strange. Sometimes, Aziraphale just couldn't be bothered to pretend to be a shop owner.

It wasn't until night began to fall that the demon managed to convince himself nothing was wrong, and nothing bad had happened. Pointing at the ignition, he took himself and the Bentley back to Mayfair.

If asked, Crowley would not have been able to explain why he had not simply gone into the bookshop when he was sitting across the street. So close, yet still so far away. So much distance between himself and his angel. His subconscious knew better, reminding his paranoia that it would be _too fast_. The demon should wait for Aziraphale to make the next move.


	3. Chapter 3

_Cowritten by Arthur Albion_

* * *

The nightlife of Soho flowed like a current around Aziraphale. He stood motionless beneath the flickering neon halo of light, watching the black car rush away down the busy street until it vanished. He wasn't sure how much time passed before he moved, walking slowly in the opposite direction toward his bookshop. The way was well lit by bright lights and colourful signs, people's voices and laughter filled the air, music oozed out of the clubs and bars as he passed.

_Everyday, it's a gettin' closer / goin' faster than a roller coaster / Love like yours will surely come my way_

Aziraphale almost tripped as he sped up his pace slightly, dodging around the traffic of people bottlenecking the doorway of a bar letting the music burst out to mock the retreating angel.

_Come what may, do you ever long for / true love from me?_

The music faded behind him as he made it to the end of the block. It wasn't very far to the bookshop where Aziraphale snapped the door shut behind him and walked deeper into the comfort of his dark, silent shop. Not allowing himself any time to think, the angel swept an armful of books off a random shelf and plopped them onto his desk.

Aziraphale decided he would need to take inventory of his books as well as reorganise them into a new shelving system, even though he knew every book sitting on each shelf by heart. It would take him months of work to accomplish, hopefully. He set himself to the task, not needing to stop for rest or food. He never stopped to think, to check the time, to bother with customers wandering in and out of the shop whenever he happened to flip the sign on the door. He simply moved automatically, letting his body take methodical action, let his mind entertain itself by cataloguing his precious books.

In what felt like a blink of an eye, Aziraphale found himself sitting at his desk with his new inventory list held completed before him. Uncomfortably, he fiddled with the pen in his hands. He couldn't recall picking it up. He set it neatly beside the stack of papers and stood to make cocoa. A thought flashed through his head, a wonder, the memory of a face looking at him desperately from behind dark glasses. Aziraphale lost his constricting hold over his conscious and the mental floodgates burst open, too quickly for him to fight for control again.

The angel came to an abrupt stop and inhaled sharply, making a strangled noise in his throat, hands fluttering to catch himself on the nearest bit of furniture. The hurt in those yellow, serpentine eyes looked at him accusingly from the past, as vivid as if Aziraphale was standing in St James's Park with the note in his hand all over again. The same rush of unforgiving fear raged through his corporeal body.

Unable to deny himself any longer, he turned in place and sorted the pile of newspapers on the couch where he had carelessly discarded them every morning after taking them off his doorstep. He found the latest date then checked the time on the grandfather clock. Two months had passed since the night he gave Crowley the thermos. Aziraphale exhaled slowly, dread flooding him. Only two months. It was a depressingly short amount of time for an immortal being.

He looked at the rotary phone sitting near his desk, his hands itching to dial the number to Crowley's flat.

_You're being silly_, he chided himself.

Forcing himself to look away, he tossed the newspaper back on the couch and went into the kitchenette to make his cup of cocoa. As the kettle warmed up, Aziraphale wondered what Crowley had done with the thermos. If he had opened it. The angel shut his eyes and commanded himself to stop thinking.

A shrill whistle pulled him back to the moment. Snapping to attention, he tsked aloud and sheepishly took the kettle off the heat, looking about at his mess of ingredients for cocoa lying about mixed with his tea things. This wouldn't do. He managed to keep his mind from wandering as he made his cocoa and opened the cupboard to retrieve his favourite mug. Crowley, though he refused to call it a gift, had gifted it to him recently. The white wings serving as a handle had obviously reminded the demon of Aziraphale. The angel carefully reached past the winged mug, took out a plain one, and filled it with his cocoa.

Walking back to his desk, warm mug in hand, he allowed himself to look around the bookshop and really take in his surroundings. Despite his efforts to reorganise, the shelves looked as haphazard and clustered as before. The shop was cosily overstuffed with knowledge and the unlimited imagination of humanity. The paned windows reflected the neon lights outside, lit in the dark but thriving night. Aziraphale crossed the shop and began pulling down the shades to block out his view of the street. As he returned to his desk, he plucked a book at random from a shelf. He sat, failing to read and cocoa going cold on the desk. His eyes kept drifting from the pages to the phone within his reach.

He couldn't call Crowley. It was in the middle of the night and that aside he had no conceivable reason to telephone. It wasn't unusual for them to go months, sometimes years, without speaking and Aziraphale was determined to act as normal as possible. As if he hadn't handed his best friend a suicide pill.

By the time the neon lights flickered out and Soho finally slowed into what passed for a semblance of slumber in the early dawn hours, the telephone line in the bookshop had been torn from the wall and the angel inside was sitting with his back determinedly to the useless machine, staring at the same page and his cocoa forgotten.

A few days later, Aziraphale began to get complaints that his phone line was down. He apologised without sincerity and assured his customers that he would have the issue looked into. Another few days passed before, begrudgingly, the telephone was functioning again. The angel would answer the phone as he used to, except it took longer for him to reach the phone since he had stationed it as far away from his desk as possible.

He ate, but only because it was what he usually did. He went out for lunch and late dinners, tried the newest restaurants in the area, went through the steps to taste and savour without real pleasure. If he was honest, he didn't have much of an appetite, but it felt necessary. Not to survive. His corporation could easily last as long as he willed without food. It was simply routine, a part of his life. It served as a nice distraction, at least.

A few more months went by before Aziraphale began to sincerely enjoy the simple things again. Discovering a new book, or stumbling upon a fascinating little restaurant he had previously overlooked. If he could not bear to think, he would simply follow the steps. Waiting until unacknowledged anxieties quieted themselves, and continuing as if nothing was amiss. His routine was effective.

About a year had gone by before Aziraphale allowed himself to think about what he had done that night. The fear never truly left. He had simply ignored it. He had shut it away in a dusty corner in the back of his mind, but it was there all the same. Lurking. Aziraphale knew he would never be rid of this worry. The horror that, one day, Crowley would be gone. He had thought, hoped, they could carry on as they always had in the past. Staying out of each other's way, lending a hand when needed. But it was not to be. Everything had changed. Aziraphale could no longer bear the thought that each second, each day he spent away from Crowley was precious time wasted. Time he could be spending at the demon's side, and protecting him from harm.

He forced himself to wait another day after this revelation before finally giving in to the need to dial the demon's number. He listened to the ringing with bated breath.

The phone rang four times before the ansaphone caught it.

_Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style._

Breath catching in his throat, strangling him, Aziraphale gently caught himself against the desk and struggled to pull himself together. Even if it was just a machine, hearing his voice was a comfort and torment.

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale started suddenly, then flinched as he cleared his throat. "Hello. It's me. I was wondering if, perhaps, you'd like to have lunch with me. I've discovered a new sushi restaurant I think you'd enjoy. I have also heard they serve a very nice range of sake."

He paused, momentarily floundering for more words. The line clicked over.

"What?" Crowley's voice was no longer a recording.

"Oh," he said automatically. "Hello."

Then Aziraphale froze. He slammed the receiver onto the cradle.

"Oh...fu- blo- oh, _hell_."


	4. Chapter 4

_Cowritten by Arthur Albion_

* * *

1968

The phone rang. This wasn't the first time it had rang since he came home from the bookshop. The ansaphone knew its job and took any messages that were left. No matter the size of the tape inside, it knew better than to fill up. Especially with nonsense like double glazing, which he already had, and life insurance, which he didn't need. Well, not a human type of life insurance, at least.

After the fourth ring, he heard himself advise the caller to leave a message with style. Crowley's bedroom was not near his office, but he could hear it just the same as if he was sitting at the desk. There was a pause, and Crowley vaguely wondered if they had hung up without leaving a message. That was preferable, really. It's not like he was going to call anyone back. Only one person had such a privilege.

His heart lurched suddenly as the voice of that one person floated through the flat. Despite the fact he had barely moved in ages, he launched himself out of the bed. Unfortunately, whilst the unused muscles of his corporation gave no protest, his cocoon of blankets hadn't received the memo that something important was happening at right this exact second.

Falling out of bed rather than the leap he had planned, the demon was a twist of limbs and blankets on the floor. A pillow hit him in the head as it was yanked off with the sudden movements. Crowley nearly ripped the bedding apart in an effort to reach the phone.

Finally standing, he sprinted through the flat completely running into the doorframe of his office as he failed to make the tight turn around a corner. Somehow remaining on his feet, despite his amusing pirouette, he snatched the phone up to his ear.

"What?"

He hadn't actually heard any of the message in his haste over his swearing and grunting.

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Hello."

The line was cut.

Crowley practically melted on the spot as he sank down to sit on the desk, just listening to Aziraphale's few words. Even after the line was dead, he still hadn't moved. The telephone slipped out of his grip. It had been too long since he had heard from the angel, and he had missed his call. Well, hadn't _missed it_ missed it, but scared him off again it seemed.

Picking up the handset from where it had come to rest in his lap, he threw it back onto the cradle.

"Too bloody fast indeed."

Angry with himself all over again, he stood from the desk as both hands came up to his forehead in frustration. He wanted to scream as he paced in a small circle. He had no idea when another opportunity might turn up. Rounding the desk, he collapsed into the throne. Despite sleeping off and on, he was suddenly exhausted.

The phone rang again.

Crowley glared at it. If he didn't know better, he might think even the phone was mocking him now. He had half a mind to destroy the damn thing.

The ansaphone, ever loyal, caught the call after the fourth ring.

"_So sorry about that. I had a, a, a, bookshop emergency."_

Crowley continued glaring at the phone, this time in disbelief at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. He had been in a rush to answer the phone, but now he wasn't sure he could hold himself together. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he angered or scared the angel off again? What if he picked it up, and couldn't say anything at all? For the first time in a long while, Crowley was shy of Aziraphale. He let the ansaphone keep doing its job. It was really quite good at it.

"_Customer trying to buy a book. Erm. Yes, right. Let me know if you'd like lunch. I understand if you're busy."_

There was an awkwardly long pause, then a soft click finally ended the message.

The demon continued to stare at the phone and the small, blinking light on the machine for a while as he tried to decide what to do. Eventually, he looked down at his watch and did a double-take. Suddenly, if possible, he felt even more guilty. Crowley hadn't realised an entire year had passed since Aziraphale gave him the thermos. He hadn't even slept for all of it. Too wrapped up in his own thoughts and fears and longing and constantly berating himself for the longing and berating himself for pretty much everything else under the sun as well.

Glancing back up at the blinking answering machine, he stood up having come to a decision. Exiting his office, he was glad it was rather early in the morning. Or very late at night. Much to his own shame now that he realised it, the demon hadn't bathed or really taken any time for personal upkeep in the last year. He was due for a shed too, he realised. But he had a lunch date, and he would use the time to make himself presentable before picking up Aziraphale at the bookshop.

Crowley didn't see the harm in just showing up. At least, he tried to convince himself it would be fine. As things were, he didn't trust himself to ring the angel back.

It was around eleven o'clock. Plenty of time before lunch still, and Aziraphale tended to appreciate something of a late meal anyway. Crowley parked the Bentley in front of the shop and the double yellow no-parking lines rolled back on themselves obediently. Walking up to the shop, he saw the closed sign and tried the door the human way first for a change. Locked. Clicking his fingers, he walked inside anyway.

"An- Aziraphale?"

There was a flurry of sound from the back room rapidly followed by a dull thump. The angel quickly appeared from the depths of the shelves, looking a bit dishevelled. He stared at the demon.

"Crowley." He visibly shook himself. "Ah, yes, hello. I see you got my message."

"Yeah. Should've rung back. How was the, er, emergency customer situation?"

Aziraphale looked embarrassed and glanced away. "Oh, that. It all happened rather quickly. I didn't make a single sale today though, so no harm was done. Sorry, I was, erm. I'll be ready in a jiffy."

"No rush, angel. I'm sure our reservation will be right on time whenever we decide to arrive." Crowley waved a hand vaguely and went to throw himself down onto the couch.

"Right. Of course." Aziraphale flashed a smile at Crowley's back before hurrying off to fix himself up and fetch his coat.

Crowley was annoyed to see his spot on the couch buried under newspapers. He didn't know why Aziraphale bothered with all these newspapers. With a click of his fingers, they piled up in order by print date and then filed themselves away wherever Aziraphale kept old papers. The demon proceeded with his plan to lounge as he waited. With a small amused smile, he appreciated the slightly bitter irony of how he always had been, and seemingly always would be, waiting for his angel.


End file.
